


The Undone and the Divine

by M_Moonshade



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blood, Eldritch Abomination Kevin, Genius Loci, M/M, Ritual Sex, Strexcorp, lots of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year ago, I scoffed at the very idea of gods. But a scientist is nothing if he cannot trust the evidence before him, and evidence I have. The creature is nothing short of divine. </p><p>He is sandstorm and desert sun, he is the ruthless efficiency of an eagle’s claws. He is incredible. He is beautiful.</p><p>And thanks to the ingenuity of StrexCorp, he is harnessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Undone and the Divine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Elderitch Kevin](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/34700) by Goddess-In-Green. 



> A genius loci is a personification of a place, or a guardian spirit of a location. 
> 
> The title comes from "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence and the Machine.

1.

A year ago, I scoffed at the very idea of gods. The supernatural has scientific backing, but gods? No more than the imaginings of the weak-willed as they huddle in the dark, frightened of the things they cannot understand.

But a scientist is nothing if he cannot trust the evidence before him, and evidence I have. The creature here-- this _genius loci_ \-- is nothing short of divine. He is sandstorm and desert sun, he is the ruthless efficiency of an eagle’s claws. He is incredible. He is beautiful.

And thanks to the ingenuity of StrexCorp, he is harnessed.

I still don’t believe in gods-- I only have enough faith for one deity.

And he has the most beautiful smile.

2.

My suits are specially tailored-- Italian cut, with fabric treated to resist staining and tearing. He is radiant, and I wouldn’t dream to come before him looking any less than my best.

Advisors in Research and Development suggested I wear the standard-issue hazmat uniform; their services were promptly discontinued, and their blood currently fills the sacrificial pools. Not quite as potent as virgin blood, but virgins are hard to come by, and my Smiling God appreciates the sentiment.

He smooths his hands down the lapels of my suit and presses his lips to my pulse. A quick nip, a flick of tongue, and I’m struck by the pleasure-pain of his touch. But it’s only momentary-- just a taste-- and he pulls back with blood on his lips and approval in his obsidian eyes.

3.

He kneels between the twin pools, looking at his reflection in the pre-dawn gloom. He doesn’t look up as I run my fingers through his hair, but leans into my touch like a satisfied cat.

The sun rises. Its first rays fall on the pools of gore at my feet.

With reverent hands I dip a golden chalice into the first pool and tip it over his crouching body.  I wash him in it as I do every morning: across each shoulder, down the long curve of his spine, and finally over his head. The blood streams down his back in long rivulets and drips down his hair, renewing the seals that bind him to this place.

Finally he turns his attention to me, his grin wide and his eyes bright, and nuzzles into my thigh. He draws one leg underneath him and rises by inches, pressed flush against my body. Perhaps it’s a ritual of his own. Perhaps he’s binding me to him the way he is bound to Strex. If so, it’s working. It’s been nearly a year, and still my body reacts as eagerly to his touch as it did on that first day: overwhelmed by hunger, desire, and the thrill of fear.

He wraps his arms around my shoulders, his leg around my waist. His arousal grinds into mine and my lips part in a gasp. He covers my mouth with his, kisses me hard and sharp, opens the cuts in my lip that have not quite healed from yesterday’s ministrations.

His tongue dances along my teeth, swirls in my mouth-- and then it is not the only thing inside me. He’s pouring himself into me. His essence rushes down my throat, filling my stomach and spreading from there. He invades every inch of me, dominant and overwhelming. And though I surrender willingly, it still hurts. I can feel him rip me apart, cell by cell, tearing me down until there’s nothing left of me that isn’t his.

Gorged by my offering, he opens my eyes, and I See.

All of time and space unfolds before us, but the morning’s debriefing directs my gaze. Stock holdings. Technological developments. Brewing civil wars in the third world.

My god hums contentedly behind my mind. These matters are at once too mundane and too obscure to hold his attention-- but they’re of interest to me, and he is pleased.

4.

The locals call him Kevin, after the human who owned this body before he claimed it.

(When he first claimed this vessel, it was only a child, and when it wears out, he’ll claim another. I wonder if he knew, when he took it, how beautiful this body would grow up to become, or if it was perfected by his presence.)

They say he is their Voice, and follow him with a love and devotion that he’s never seen outside of this small city. Their fervor made Human Resources uncomfortable, at first-- it’s too easy to see StrexCorp’s treatment of their god as blasphemy-- but their fears were unfounded.

When Kevin was bound to Strex, so were they.

5.

When I regain consciousness, I’m cradled in his arms. His slender fingers trace my jaw, his grin is tempered by gentle adoration.

In a few hours we’ll part. I’ll spend the day recounting every relevant piece of information, to be filed and used as StrexCorp sees fit. He will turn on his microphone and weave his scripture across the airways.

But for now there is silence. For now there is the warmth of his body wrapped around mine. For now he holds me close, and we lie together on an altar of blood and gold.

A priest and his god.

The undone and the divine.


End file.
